Eila—that was the princess's name, light as a breeze rustling the grass on the meadows. In the royal family, all names started with "E"—tradition or some strange whim of fate.
She was so beautiful it was almost indecent. Blue-green eyes like forest lakes, light-white hair flowing like silk. She resembled an elf from old tales, only without the pointed ears.
Her main weapon was kindness. Not just a trait, but a true force—invisible, silent, but devastating. Her kindness could disarm any warrior. She shone like a sunbeam piercing through cracks in old shutters.
It was because of this kindness that they constantly tried to deceive her. The princess, kind to all—from dirty peasants to pompous aristocrats—caused quiet panic at court. "How can a princess be kind? To all the plebeians?!" they grumbled, as if kindness were something shameful.
Sometimes I watched her work in the garden. She would bend to the ground, whisper to the flowers, and they would bloom as if answering her. Once, I tried to sculpt a small flower from ice. It came out crooked and melted almost immediately. She laughed—not maliciously, but softly, like wind in the leaves—and said: "Your ice is special, just like you."
I blushed and ran away then. Her words stuck in me like a splinter.
And me... I didn't like her! I shouted to myself in my soul.
A lie. The most beautiful lie I'd ever told myself.
One could fall in love with her at first sight. Many did—guards blushed, poets composed verses, even the old stablehand dropped his pitchfork, staring at her. I... I wasn't one to lose my head. To me, she was a friend—someone to laugh with, argue with, play with, without thinking about the sweetest face in the world.
We played knights and princesses. I swung a wooden sword, imagining myself a hero on a white horse. Those games were my little kingdom, where I could be anyone—not a weakling with useless magic, but a true defender.
I can admit only one thing—she had the most beautiful smile in the world. Timid, slightly shy, making the soul warm and... foolish. That admission is enough for me to hate myself for weakness.
On my path appeared Leont de Mortvel—the chief knight and king's protector. Tall as a tower, with a voice that made walls tremble, and eyes that saw through you. To others, he was stern as winter wind, but to me... gentler. He always found a moment to talk, to show how to hold a sword properly, or to point out my mistakes.